Disappear
by Writer Awakened
Summary: On that bloody night, it was not the sound of screaming that kept Lyn’s eyes open. Her dead father’s face kept her in the world of the living. When next she closed her eyes, her people will have ceased to exist. Post-FE7, Pre-FE6; Lyn, Sue, Rath, et. al.


_Disappear_

-

It was not the sound of screaming that kept Lyn's eyes open. Not the clashing of blades or the seductively soft twangs of bowstrings, not the curses of the men, the prayers of the women, or the cries of the children.

Her dead father's face kept Lyn in the world of the living. Hassar, chieftain of the Lorca tribe. There had been much noise and clamor on that night, too: the night of her father's last breath. Screams. War cries. The monotonous sound of axes rising and falling. It was long, long ago, but it felt nearby to Lyn. It felt frighteningly close.

"My people," Lyn mumbled. She lay face-up on her small bed of grass and straw, arms outstretched beside her, one palm facing the ground, the other cupping the heavens. The circular enclosure of her tent was dark; the only light radiated from the fire burning outside. On this night, very much in the present, the sound of fighting carried on endlessly, growing louder with every second.

The law of the plains demanded a kinship between the tribes of Sacae. Band together to ward off invaders from your lands. In times of peril, treat those of fellow clans as though they were of your own. That was the honor of the plainsfolk.

The Jutes knew nothing of honor. The Jutes cared nothing of honor. Their clan was a ruthless one. Of the men who were attacking the settlement, the temporary encampment of the Kutolah, none wore the colors or the runes of the Jute tribe. None were even of Sacaen blood. But this was their attack, of that there was no doubt. The assailants struck when most of the warriors had turned to sleep, and murdered the watchmen as they sat cross-legged around the watch fire, entranced by the hallowed leaves of the Helel tree. The brigands were not particularly quiet, and devoid of subtleties, but they came in numbers bearing dark hearts and mean spirits.

The Jute tribe roamed the south of Sacae, rarely venturing to make camp further north. It was unheard to hear of a Sacaen tribe making their homes in the mountains for any longer than was necessary, but the Jutes often made camp in the mountains on the border of Bern. There were rumors, hushed whispers, that the Jutes had struck deals with the kingdom to the south, maybe exchanged favors with some of the bandit groups living in caves on the border. Lyn had once witnessed a meeting between Chief Dayan and the Jute chieftain and could sense the quiet distrust and dislike passing between them. There were whispers, the gossip of ghosts, that maybe the deals with the gray men had come before, long before, years before, back even to her childhood. The ghosts who talked through the mouths of the talkative made Lyn wonder and wonder again how the bandits knew where to attack and when. After all, who knew the nomads better than the nomads? It did not happen only once. Yet the ghosts only suggested. The ghosts danced, the ghosts touched. They told stories with no ending and disappeared.

The air was thick. Maybe with smoke, maybe with solemnity. Maybe with the sorrow of a thousand years, a thousand tribes of green and red washed away in rivers of crow feathers and vendettas and gold. It was impossible to tell. The ghosts never revealed what was behind the curtains in their enemies' souls. No one and nothing explained the meaning of metal axes and butchers' knives. No one among them cared to know.

Lyn groaned and touched her side. Her clothing, the tribal vestments of the Kutolah, were stained red with her blood, rising up and spreading out. A bandit's wild sword stroke had caught her across the midriff, and the following blows from two axes had torn a wound through her chest near her ribcage.

Lyn drew her hand up to her face, saw her blood, and groaned again. Not even the healers could mend wounds such as those.

"The Lorca," Lyn mumbled aloud to an empty tent. She felt her eyes begin to mist, but she was afraid to close her eyes. When she closed her eyes, she would again be in the world where humans could not walk. "My father. Forgive me. My daughter…she is Kutolah. I am the last—of the Lorca I know…forgive me."

Lyn tried to lift her arm but could not. Beneath her bedding, folded neatly into a square, was her old garb, the clothing given to her by her father when she was a little girl. When she and Rath had been wed in the traditional way of the Kutolah, Lyn had worn the skins and patterns of her new tribe. Rath's father, the Silver Wolf, refused to have it any other way. Are you not proud to wear our colors? he had said. She was proud, always proud. She was willing to be doubly proud.

As Lyn lay dying, she feared. She no longer feared for herself; her controlled breathing kept her calm and steadied her trembling arms. She feared for her child. Sue, daughter of the wind, born in the grass under uncertain terms, three weeks before the diviner predicted. She was born on the hunt, a child of the open earth. Lyn had needed to chew on nearly an entire month's worth of the dulling Helel leaf _and_ the lead huntress' fur shawl to stop the pain from consuming her. Her father had told her once that if she was not a good girl the spiders would come and the spiders would roost and the spiders would punish her. Sue was never a punishment to Lyn, but nevertheless Sue had been like a thousand spiders burning her from the inside out. That night, Lyn had knelt before the wind and honored her mother profusely, her gratitude never so emotionally delivered. Yes, maybe there was such a thing as a good spider.

Lyn shifted on her bed of grass, and it hurt. As a Sacaen, she was aware of many things. As a mother, she was a wolf, a green wolf with seven ears and twenty eyes. The ghosts were clearer ever since Sue's birth. Lyn had heard whispers in the bloody night, tender whispers on the wind from some of the women scrambling about:

_They are killing children_.

"Sue," Lyn muttered, her cheeks wet and on fire. She muttered her young daughter's name, hoping for her, praying for her, protecting her fate with a shield of her mother's words. Lyn breathed—_to the rhythm of the drums_, so the women on the hunt had said as she labored—and steadied herself. It had been Sue who taught her, without words or deeds, the need to breathe calmly. From then on, whenever she was afraid or in pain, she took time to breathe and thought of her little girl and her mother.

"Lyn."

Lyn turned her head to the side. Her husband Rath, the man whom Lyn called the White Wolf in the fashion of his father, stood at the opening of the tent. The front of his garb was stained with blood and his hair was askew.

"Are you hurt?" Lyn said as Rath came closer. He smelled like smoke and fire and the spiced hearthbread the elders cooked in stone-and-clay ovens.

"I am fine. I would let them get no further than our tents. Lyn?"

"I was—too reckless. It—it was—a lapse of concentration. I was careless."

"Don't speak," Rath said as Lyn grimaced.

"Sue!" Lyn said suddenly. She hadn't enough strength to sit up. "My daughter."

"None of the children were harmed. Only the boys old enough to fight have put themselves in harm's way."

Lyn breathed in deeply. "Rath. You should—help your people."

"They are yours as well," Rath said in dry monotone. He watched Lyn; her smile was directed at him, but her eyes were looking _through_ him, past him. Her eyes were already dancing with the dead.

"You are my…chieftain," Lyn said, weakly grinning. Her body trembled. "I am yours, and…yours alone."

"I would not abandon you. Never."

Rath's face rarely changed, his mood never changed with the tides as hers often did, his expression rarely shifted, his voice never wavered even in the most extreme of times. But somehow, for some reason, Lyn knew he understood the gravity of the situation from the moment he saw her wounds.

Lyn was about to speak when a young boy of no more than ten appeared in the tent opening, wearing a bandanna over his hair as Rath and Dayan did. His arm and his short bow had been spattered with blood, but he seemed to be unharmed. He stood completely still, expressionless, his eyes trained straight ahead.

"Elder Rath," the boy said. "The outsiders are almost defeated. Chief Dayan wishes to know where you are."

Rath turned his head. "Thank you, Shin," he said.

"Is Elder Lyn…"

"I will be there in a moment," Rath said. "Tell Chief Dayan I will be there after I say my farewells."

Shin lowered his head and was quiet for a moment. "I shall," he said, and left the tent.

"Rath."

Rath knelt at his wife's side.

"I heard…my father speak. To me," said Lyn.

"I never met your father. Hassar of the Lorca. I wish I could have known him."

"He told me not to fear. Our clans…our spirits…we will all be…together again. And yet..." Her voice trailed away. Would her people's history be resigned to the world of the dead?

For a moment there was silence. Then,

"Years ago, when we were wed…" Rath said, sighing and looked up. Lyn could not believe he was reminiscing. "The sounds of the fire crackling and the drums beating. When you wore the red feathered headdress of the Kutolah, and we danced without speaking…I remember that moment."

Lyn smiled. They did not dance often. They danced less than they made love. When they danced, they were happy. The dances brought the ghosts out to watch. When they danced, the world slowed and became quiet and soft. When they danced, she was as he, and he was as she, and they were as the world. When the others sat in a circle around the fire and chanted and the drums played and they danced, the feeling was like nothing else, a rhythmic quiet. Nothing could take that feeling away from her. When they danced, the ghosts not only spoke, they caressed her. When they danced, she felt whole.

"I would have had you in your tribe's dress if I could," said he.

"I know."

"I was proud to have a daughter of the Lorca as my wife," said he.

"And I am proud of—of _our_ daughter…as well."

Lyn's strength was escaping her. Every breath, every word was painful; the pain was dull, distant. The pain was wonderful.

"I will say the rites."

At once it felt real. Those few minutes spent breathing and bleeding had been like a dream to Lyn, a trance like that brought upon by chewing the Helel leaf: a communion with the sacred spirits. A dance. But at that moment, it felt real. Tellah Redthunder the elder shaman usually said the rites to the dying. She could not touch Lyn like Rath could.

Rath held his arms out, one palm facing the ground, one watching the sky. "Mother Earth and Father Sky, welcome she the noble green wolf into your domain. Carry her kindly and strongly through the trail."

"Oh, Ra-th…"

"Let her sleep to the sound of the wind and the scent of the grass. For this I pray."

"Rath," Lyn said, as loudly as she could. Rath looked down. "Once more…hold me."

After a moment of silence, Rath leaned forward and cradled his wife in his arms. Years of marriage had not made him more comfortable with motionless tender moments. Lyn held to him as long as she could, rubbing her cheek against his.

Rath laid Lyn down and rose to his feet. Her eyes were slowly closing, her fingers slowly grasping at air.

"Care for—our beautiful daughter," Lyn said, smiling. "I won't have—enough time."

Rath nodded, his hands clasped.

"Lyn of the Lorca—" at the word, Lyn began to weep silently— "rest in Mother Earth's embrace. Let the years pass by, in time with the rhythm of the drums. I will join you soon enough."

"Will we...dance?"

Rath nodded emphatically. "Forever."

"And...I will wear...my people's clothes?"

The Lorca would disappear. They would become as ghosts. Suddenly, Lyn realized. _Ghosts_. Suddenly, she understood. Yes. Her people would speak again in the world of the living.

"Forever."


End file.
